THE MIRROR

Had it not been through mirrors, I wonder what perception we would create of ourselves. Who are we? What makes me, ‘ME’? Not just the face but our sole sense of being a person- a human, would alter if we were to never really see ourselves in the mirror of reality. Does the mirror do something beyond reflecting our outer looks? Do people in the outside world walk in as living mirrors, reflecting each other’s lives while not knowing their own? Perhaps it’s the mirror in the outer world that sheds light on this inner sense. This thought had been consuming me ever since I read M.L, Jackson’s latest novel, "Jimmy’s mirror". The author is known for merging truths and lies on the same plate, and none happens to deny her mastery. Even today, I came across an article where one critique sarcastically called her, “the liar of the fictional world.” Well, from my own verdict, I can say he isn’t wrong in his remark. In the novel, Jimmy Falcon is portrayed as a horrible murderer of her abusive husband. The killing is described in vivid, relentless detail- every scene, every thought of Jimmy implying on the intent and deed of her ruthlessly killing her husband. When Jimmy seems prepared to live with the guilt for the rest of her life, a seed of doubt creeps in, when she visits a psychiatrist and confesses the crime. The psychiatrist reveals that her suppressed violent psyche had persuaded her to believe that she did the crime. Everything she has confessed was nothing but a lie- a distorted projection of her own mind. And yet, another lie. But what was the lie this time? On the surface, the murder seemed to be Jimmy’s delusion -a product of her suppressed violent psyche, as the psychiatrist claimed. Yet if I shifted the mirror a little, letting the light fall differently, couldn’t the psychiatrist, himself be the lie? There was no certainty that he was telling the truth. No proof that he was even real and not an origin of Jimmy’s mind. What deception Jackson was weaving this time? A wave of chill ran through me at the thought of it, and I had made myself determine to discover what was real. I stared at my own reflection in the small mirror on my desk, the one with the faint crack running through the corner akin to my own mental thoughts. For weeks, the story had been my quiet escape -a way to dissect someone else’s reality instead of facing my own quiet life.

I found the paper lying blank on my desk. I should have started the analysis by now, tearing apart every lie until I could finally scrape out truth from it. But it was as if every word I tried to put down on paper came out in the favour of lie, almost like the story denied being exposed. Being so deeply engaged in the story, I had almost forgotten I had a life beyond these pages- and a mother who watched me with growing concern.

“Michell, you need to step away from that book, “she would say, worry creasing her forehead. “If you didn’t quit it any sooner it would never leave you.” This is not the first time my mother made me scared of the things but this was the first time when I saw her worry reaching her eyes. Well, stories don’t, leave you so easily and if you are a reader from heart, you wouldn’t want stories to leave you either. I went downstairs still pondering about Jimmy’s world and waiting for a euphoric flash to come, where the truth finally decides to reveal itself in the most unexpected ways. It never came, no matter how hard I thought about it.

The mailbox caught my eye, and I thought I would need a little break from Jackson’s world or who knows my mother’s prediction might came true. Inside the mailbox there was a letter addressed to me, based upon my acquaintances a letter was something completely out of the box. I opened it with my hands trembling, I wasn’t a good person to put positive fill in the blanks under unfamiliar situations. My eyes seemed to betray me as I opened it finally. I read it, again and once again, hoping that words would change if I read it the next time. But it stayed as it is.

The letter said- “I WAS’NT LYING, DEAR ONE.”

It was signed: Jimmy Falcon.

As soon as the words registered to my mind, inside of my chest and stomach became heavy. My brain fogged and I refused the urge to faint until I finally got a hold of myself.

I had thought of considering this letter as a prank; someone must have known my obsession with the book and story and thought of making fun of it. Until I realised it wasn’t known to anybody, nobody but my mother had an idea that I have been reading a book unhealthily, and she barely understood the story itself. So where had this letter come from? Who had really written it? I would have shrugged it off if I could name even one person who would like jokes of this sort. The line sounded exactly in the voice of Jimmy- the same intimate “dear one” that appeared in her dialogues throughout the novel. That realization settled in my chest like something cold and alive, curling my toes, with a creeping dread I tried desperately to deny. My mother shouted from the background, “Will you ever leave these papers out of your hands?” She had been watching me through the kitchen window and I immediately shoved the paper inside the pockets of my pants. If she were to find out about the letter, she would freak out completely.

The warm aroma of cinnamon rolls drifted through the air, sweet and comforting, trying to lure me back to normal life. But the letter burned in my pocket turning me back like a secret that was trying to speak through the hidden ways. After finishing the meal and convincing my mother that the book is not hovering my mind anymore, I had immediately gone to my desktop. The only way to uncover the truth- was to trace the letter ‘s origin. With numbing hands and a fogged brain, I emailed M.L. Jackson, barely aware of what I even asked her or why. There was little probability of her seeing a random email, let alone giving a response to one.

Finally, calming down my racing heart, I decided the analysis was mine alone to do, for uncovering who was behind the name of Jimmy Falcon and what had been the author trying to hide through her? At this moment, I had no idea whether or not these two were related. The same creeping feeling returned as I had sat the desk to jot all the points. It was weird even if I stopped thinking about this whole matter, my body would refuse to believe that everything was back to normal, my chest would still be heavy with a burden. One thing was sure; Jackson plays with your mind very well. She, would say two contrary things and both will sound equally sane. Was the real answer somewhere between them, or was there a larger picture I couldn’t, see?

I picked up the pen and dipped it in the red ink. A shiver ran through me. Outside the wind was howling fiercely, rattling the windows with malicious force, as droplets of rain slipped inside the room. The weather which would have been otherwise pleasant felt unnerving and disturbing. It was hard to tell whether the outside was disturbing or had it been the projection of my own mind, that matched with the rhythm of winds. The red ink reminded me of Jimmy -when she committed the killing, she was drenched in the blood, what later had been revealed as nothing but the spots of ink. And if we were to consider that the letter had been from Jimmy, then what was she saying? What was she not lying about? The murder? Her guilt? The psychiatrist? Because something out of these was surely a lie. The wind grew fiercer and I jerked my hand back in defence, knocking the entire inkpot over. Red spilled across the desk and onto my clothes. Despite drenching in the blood ink I tried, to save the paper I was writing on. Clutching it to my chest as a loud bang sounded against the window making me squeeze my eyes shut. A few long breaths and I opened my eyes, with horror flushing over me. I saw a girl in the window staring at me, drenched in the red blood and holding a paper tight to her chest that said -JIMMY FALCON.

Yes, it was her, looking straight at me, and this time I could see, what was she not lying about? The blood had never been the ink. The paper I had been holding had fallen from my hand. A scream was heard and it took me moments realizing that it was mine own. I drifted away from the window, watching that I had been drenched in the same colour. I tried- again and again rubbing it off my dress but it wouldn’t come off. I heard a notification pop up on my phone and a background voice of my mother shouting, I grabbed the phone and it had been a message from Michell that read: “Who are you? What have you been lying about?”

The phone dropped from my fingers. I fell to my knees.

The door opened. My mother stood there, eyes wide with shock and hidden sadness. I knew she could saw her too – or perhaps she had only seen me.

But in that moment , I no longer knew who "me" was.